


Winding Woods

by ziusura



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Language Barrier, M/M, POV Alternating, qunari adaar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a foolish idea to march into the forest—his father screaming at his back, and every ounce of his anger pulling him forward—but Dorian had forgotten about the creatures living in it, and he certainly didn't expect to actually see one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Into the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> I love the trope where two or more people come together despite a language barrier and I wanted to work on writing non-dialogue parts, so here I am. With _Dorian_ , a character who talks quite a bit. We'll see how managing two wips at once goes for me. 
> 
> This au is vaguely Thedas shaped if you squint and rearrange some things, but it's not canon (I mean the qunari don't deal with darkspawn in canon. sten was their first *known* attempt in canon). More like a Thedas smudge on a stereotypical medieval fairy tale land. 
> 
> As a warning, in the beginning Dorian will refer to Adaar as a creature and compare him to an animal at times. This will change because holy shit it is terrible to refer to people like that.

It was a foolish decision made by too much drink and anger at his father and Dorian knew it, but he was already halfway to the forest edge and there was no way he was turning back now. He could hear his father calling him back, likely standing at the sign posts at the edge of the city—the furthest point most people would go towards the forest—but that only fueled Dorian more. 

It was only when he stepped past the closest trees and the dense foliage blocked out the soft dusk light from above that he realized he hadn’t grabbed his staff when he’d stormed out of his father’s home. There were darkspawn in the area, putrid bastardizations of flesh and life that attacked everything and infected those they touched with their taint, but Dorian wouldn’t go back—not even for his staff. His father likely wouldn’t be able to tell the difference—a darkspawn son or a gay son—exactly the same. At least as a darkspawn Dorian wouldn’t care so much that he wasn’t what his father wanted. 

He trudged through the dank, sticky forest and winced when he’d stepped in something gooey that squelched under his boot. Sweat pooled on his lower back and leaves and branches caught in his hair, but still, anger and an unwillingness to bow to his father’s pride kept him moving on. This was not a Dorian Pavus he’d want anyone to see.

He supposed it was just his luck for the day that had his foot finding the exact spot needed to send him flying up into the air in a large net. Dorian struggled futilely for a moment or two, so surprised by the sudden movement that his battle instincts kicked in and he’d reached for his back trying to grab his staff until he remembered, oh yeah, he’d left it in his father’s armory. The fight in his muscles drained out instantly, and then he just felt resigned. 

The net was made from metal wire. He’d found out the hard way when he’d tried to burn it away with a small fire spell and instead saw it turning a bright glowing red he’d only seen at the blacksmith’s. The holes in it were large enough for entire limbs to fit through—both legs up to mid thigh and an arm were hanging out—but small enough that Dorian honestly could not get his arm and legs to go back inside the net, and as a mage he definitely did not have much armor keeping him out. It didn’t help that Dorian was man in a net big enough to hold at least two or three more, so the net was so slack he couldn’t manipulate it.

This was a mistake. Dorian shouldn’t have imbibed before he met his father for the evening, and certainly not as much as he had, but it was yet another night where his parents would spew the same words about _duty_ and _family_ as they had when he was a teenager and then introduce him to an altus woman. He’d found out the woman was fifteen years his senior and had run out before his parents had gotten past the guilt trip part of their speech, because now they were throwing women barely out of childhood at him. And since he was himself, he went more for dramatics instead of heading to the armory before storming out of the house, and then chose the _forest_ as the best place to draw his father’s guilt and ire, instead of someplace safer, like the tavern.

And now he was going to starve to death hanging ten feet above the ground. Well his father would certainly think _something_

There was a sudden unnatural quietness, and Dorian sobered quickly. He was a fire mage trapped in a metal net in a forest without his staff, and there were very few things that could cause all sounds of life in nature to just stop. Best case scenario, it was a hunter who’d, for whatever reason, chosen this blighted forest as their hunting grounds. Worst case scenario, he was going to be hanging just above darkspawn heads, sending fire spell after fire spell down at the creatures below while they stabbed him with whatever they had in their hands. There was no way it’d ever be a hunter, but darkspawn didn’t set traps like this, and for the first time that evening Dorian felt fear chill in his veins. 

There was a sound like rustling leaves and Dorian whipped his head towards it, squinting in the darkened evening light to try and see whatever, or whoever, it was. More rustling leaves from the same area. His heart thumped against his rib cage, and Dorian’s hands clenched and unclenched in preparation to throw a spell without his staff. 

The nearest trees parted, and Dorian found himself at the wrong end of a bow and arrow. The figure stepped closer, and the bow lowered. The relief was only short lived; Dorian sucked in a gasp when saw just what was on the other side of the weapon.

Dorian had forgotten about the other creatures that lived in the forest—ox men, huge as a giant and as ferocious as a dragon, with the horns to prove it. He’d only seen one in his life, shackled in the city square more than thirty years ago while he went out to the market with his mother and a slave. She’d shoved him behind her, but Dorian had been little older than a toddler and contained too much of the fearless curiosity children often had, and had peaked out beyond her skirts. 

As a child it had been difficult to tell if the creature was a man or a woman, so muscular like father under the robes it wore, but with white hair as long as his mother’s. It hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even cried out in pain while the surrounding men hurled stones at the kneeling figure or when a mage threw a fire spell at the ends of its hair. Dorian had picked up a rock, determined to be just like the other men in the square, when the creature had turned towards him with the face that had haunted his nightmares for all his childhood. Blank yellow eyes, bloodied hair burning behind it, and just above the high collar on its robes Dorian saw the most frightening thing of all. Its mouth had been sewn shut—lips tight together and so old a wound that skin had grown over the thread. Dorian had dropped the rock and done nothing but scream himself hoarse. 

Later, when their slave had given Dorian some warm milk and some sweets, and he’d finally stopped shaking, his mother had told him that the poor creature was a mage. That was what the monsters in the forest did to mages, and if he strayed too close to the forest’s edge they’d snatch him. 

The man before him was such a creature, shirtless and muscular and with spiraling goat horns bracketing his head, and Dorian could only try and press himself against the netting furthest from him. Dorian was defenseless—stuck in a net and unable to use his magic because even as a thirty-four year old man he was afraid of being snatched...and—and being _bound_.

The man shouted something, his voice as deep and loud as a creature like that was expected to have, and it felt like Dorian should understand it because the patterns of hard and soft syllables seemed familiar, but it wasn’t arranged in any kind of order he could make sense of. 

“Do you by any chance speak Tevene?” Dorian shouted back. It was a vain hope—it was uncommon for the people in Minrathous to speak the common tongue for the dog people in the south, and they were human. If Dorian had only actually seen one—now two—creatures, how likely was it that the man had spoken to any humans enough to learn the language? 

But Dorian was good at talking, and if he couldn’t have his magic, or even his appearance as horrid as he must look after all that running through the forest, he wanted to talk. 

The man said something in his garbled language again, and Dorian swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. He was utterly alone in this. 

Dorian said nothing. The man said nothing. There was nothing but the sound of Dorian’s own quick breaths and the soft patter of the man’s footsteps on the forest floor. 

The man came closer and closer to the tree Dorian was hanging from, and Dorian warily watched him crouch by the roots and set down his bow to pull a short blade from his leather pants. He set to work on something behind the tree that Dorian couldn’t see, and Dorian frantically tried to come up with a plan that wasn’t dependent on him getting out of the netting. 

There was a sudden crack and the net dropped, Dorian so unable to suck in a breath that he could only hold his mouth open in horror as he fell the full distance to the ground. The soft moss that lined the ground did nothing, and Dorian hit it hard, hot pain racing out of his leg so sharply that he thought he might pass out, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the man moving. Adrenaline pumped through him, and Dorian stood up because in all of the plans he’d managed to come up with _run_ was the most important part, but he didn’t make it very far. As soon as he put weight on his left leg he collapsed onto his hands and knees with a yell so loud it might have woken Minrathous, and he realized his back was to the horned man.

Dorian flipped onto his back automatically, though it was a terrible position for crawling away, especially as tangled as he was in the net, and his eyes flickered desperately around the area until his eyes settled on the hulking form of the man, so much larger now that Dorian wasn’t several feet above him. His head was nothing but white noise, fear and adrenaline fighting for control but neither of them actually doing anything. He needed his staff.

Dorian’s back hit the base of a tree and he could move no further. His fingers dug into the bark behind him, and still the man approached slowly, hands raised and palms to Dorian like Dorian was some tiny animal. 

“Are you placating me?” Dorian asked, voice more than a little tinged with hysteria. 

The man paused and cocked his head to the side, and Dorian could nearly feel the man’s eyes as they trailed up Dorian’s body and landed at his face, but he didn’t speak. It was unneeded; they didn’t speak the same language and clearly the man didn’t get the same sort of comfort Dorian did from talking. He stooped by Dorian’s leg, moving just as slow as he had been when he walked over. He was humming something soft and deep from his chest, and Dorian really did feel like an animal then—a rabbit caught in a trap with a big horned wolf trying to calm him. 

Dorian tensed—forced his back harder into the tree and grit his teeth—when he felt the first careful brush of the man’s fingers on his injured leg, just above the lip of his boot. He wanted to kick out or cast flashfire, and not for the first time he wished he had any talent in healing, but his muscles wouldn’t flex, wouldn’t move when he told them to. 

Instead Dorian puffed his chest out as far as he could without holding his breath and said, “Be careful, you horned brute.”

The man flinched back and raised his palms to Dorian again, which would’ve been reassuring if Dorian hadn’t realized how large they were up close and personal; this man was not small. He started that soft humming again, and flexed his fingers. When Dorian said nothing, he quit the humming and pointed his head towards Dorian’s leg—no, his shin, because he was nearly positive that’s where the injury was—and then wiggled his fingers again. 

Oh, he wanted to continue touching him, hopefully as an examination and not as food. Dorian peered down at his shin, or what he could see of it, and immediately looked up and away, gut churning. It didn’t look right. No, that was an understatement. He didn’t see (or feel) any bone sticking out, which was lucky considering he’d tried standing on it, but the skin was dark, bruised, and the muscles in his leg felt stretched, out of place. He’d broken it. His leg was broken and now he was going to end up like altus Claudius—on crutches and dependent on everyone else, on his father. Or worse, if this creature was meant to tend to him.

Dorian swallowed audibly and nodded before he could change his mind, and the man gave a short nod back. The man was trying to be gentle, but every touch sent burning pain up his leg; Dorian had to press his head harder and harder against the rough bark behind him because it dulled his awareness of his leg. 

There was a pointed grunt and a tap on Dorian’s right leg, and Dorian’s eyes jerked open—he hadn’t realized he’d closed them, and now he was unsure of how long he’d had them so. The man was still at his feet, but was now miming taking off Dorian’s boot. 

“Of course. This creature breaks my leg and now he wants to undress me!” Dorian laughed because nothing else seemed appropriate, even if he did sound like some deranged madman, but he nodded yes to that request as well. 

The man undid the clasps and buckles on Dorian’s boot with only slight trouble, which was nearly incredible considering that he didn’t seem to be wearing anything of the sort under his pants. He adjusted his weight over Dorian’s leg and slid a careful hand under Dorian’s calf—the other over the top of Dorian’s ankle—and made eye contact with Dorian, likely checking Dorian’s face for pain, but Dorian had no idea how the man could see in such abysmal light. Then the boot was coming off and Dorian’s teeth were so far in his bottom lip he tasted blood. 

Dorian’s chest was heaving when the man finally set his boot onto the ground next to him with a muffled thunk. The man made a clicking noise in his throat at the mess that was Dorian’s leg, but Dorian was afraid to look. He stared at the man’s horns instead, and the short tuft of black hair between them. 

The man said something to himself—it was too soft for Dorian to make out individual noises—and stood up. Dorian couldn’t feel relief when the man disappeared into the pitch black of the nearby forest. Yes, the creature was gone, but now Dorian was alone and injured in a forest at night with darkspawn, and more of the horned creatures, and perhaps one of them wouldn’t be so opposed to eating him for a night snack. 

He came back with two sticks and a wad of fabric, and Dorian was so delirious with fear that he actually thanked the man for not abandoning him, not that the man would understand him anyway, thank the Maker. He started that hum again, and gripped Dorian’s ankle and the area of his shin just below his knee, and Dorian knew what was coming. He barely had the chance to open his mouth and yell before the man yanked and lined up the split sections of his bone, and when he started to wrap the fabric around the sticks and Dorian’s leg, all Dorian could think about was the liquor room in his father’s cellar. What he would do for a heavy drink right now. 

The man handed Dorian his boot after, which made sense since it would be an impossible task to fit both his leg and the splint in it, and Dorian’s arm was so stiff it felt like crackling leather when he lifted it, but he managed to grasp the boot and pull it to his chest. 

“Thank you,” he said automatically because his mother had beaten politeness into his very core, and his voice was so tired and throat on its way to soreness. There was no telling how long he’d spent in that net without water, but Dorian was definitely feeling the effects of it. 

The man obviously did not know what he was saying, but he must have understood the sentiment because he lowered his head minutely as if to say it was no trouble at all. 

Dorian wanted to laugh. The creature that _sewed mages’ mouths shut_ had broken his leg, but because he set and splinted it Dorian was _thanking_ him. What an evening. 

The man moved himself to Dorian’s side and crouched by his hip. He was close enough that if Dorian turned his head he’d have a face full of the man’s horns. Unlike the last times, the man did not indicate what he was doing and ask for Dorian’s okay. He slid his arms under Dorian’s knees and lower back and lifted Dorian like a bride, and it did not go smoothly. The pain that had receded from Dorian’s leg muscles being put in the correct place came back full throttle, and sometime between the black dots swarming his vision and Dorian coming back into consciousness firmly against the man’s muscled chest, Dorian had flung his free hand out to grip the man’s strangely hard shoulder. 

Dorian struggled to suck in a breath against the tremors of pain still wracking his leg, and he turned his cheek in against the man’s firm pectorals. Up close like this he could make out fine black swirls and angular designs covering every inch of skin that Dorian could see—which was admittedly little—and it was oddly fitting for such a large man to have such a delicate drawing on him. The man started humming again—a different pitch and a different song but it still reminded Dorian of a lullaby. The vibrations numbed his face, and despite the fact that he was being held like an overgrown baby by a brutish creature, he very nearly felt safe. 

And then the man started walking. 

Every step was agony. There was no other way to describe it. The man moved, inevitably jostling Dorians leg, and Dorian winced and yelled and rubbed snot onto the man’s chest with every writhe, but he kept going like it didn’t phase him. Dorian supposed he would have to be immune to it; it’s not like Dorian could walk and the man was determined to get him to _wherever_. Perhaps the nearest fire pit.

There was a beast waiting in an area that could only be described as an overgrown path. It was perhaps a bear, or maybe a deer, or some disgusting mix of the two, and Dorian swore he heard it growling. But the man didn’t turn back, just kept heading towards the giant slobbering bear until Dorian was close enough to see a saddle. That was just...of course the creature owned the beast; it made perfect sense. 

The man paused next to the beast, considering, then promptly threw Dorian over into the saddle. His right leg made it over onto the other side, but his left slammed painfully into the body of the bear, and Dorian could only hunch over and muffle his scream in the beast’s back. The man stroked his hip, unable to reach any other part of Dorian _not_ injured, and made soft clicking noises until Dorian pulled up and glared at him. 

“That was a terrible idea,” he said, letting his displeasure bleed into his voice, and the man lifted his arm away in a gesture that could only be described as sheepish. 

He stepped away from the beast and Dorian with a slight bow, and disappeared back into the thick forest. And Dorian was alone again.

It occurred to him that he could leave now if he chose, strand the horned man out in the forest and find his way back to civilization, but Dorian hadn’t been on a horse since he was in his late teens, and this was no horse. Leaving now would only get himself lost in a forest with darkspawn and likely an entire horned creature encampment. But it could also get him home. Home where his father and all of Dorian’s guilt and duties lay. 

Before Dorian could truly decide, the man came back with his bow in tow. He managed to climb up the beast’s hind legs and into the saddle in a smooth, automatic motion without knocking into Dorian at all until the last slide. It was almost sensual the way the man’s soft stomach and truly impressive chest brushed Dorian’s bare shoulders and down the thin cloth of Dorian’s robes, but this was a creature and Dorian was injured; it did nothing more than press him painfully closer to the edge of the saddle because this was clearly meant for one large man, and not a large creature plus Dorian. 

The man tapped Dorian’s arm twice and pointed at the reins curled just in front of Dorian. He hadn’t seen the man angry yet, he was sure, and he certainly didn’t want to find out what that was like, so Dorian did his best to ensure agreeability and grabbed the reins quickly. The man’s arms circled around him to take them in hand, and Dorian suddenly had way less room. There was a sharp click behind Dorian’s left shoulder, hot breath brushing by Dorian’s ear, and the great beast groaned and began to move.

It was nearly pitch black and they were off into the winding woods, into more darkness. Dorian still really needed that drink.


	2. Saddled Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kudos! I apologize for my sense of humor in advance.

It was late. Adaar should have been back at camp and nestled in his furs by now, but the darkspawn activity had increased and Adaar hadn’t accounted for the time it would take to visit each trap. He’d put it off too long and now he was paying the price; he’d be lucky if he got to camp before the third shift in soldier rotation, but he wasn’t a soldier anymore and Tama had always said he was slow to start things. 

The hornless man in trap eleven hadn’t even slowed him down, at the pace Adaar had been going. Adaar had never seen a living one before—dead, sure; the grounds he covered as a part of his sentry duty sent him close to the hornless ones' towns (not close enough to be seen—Adaar knew the stories of their brutality and unwillingness to trade with the Qunari, but the darkspawn were more important than fighting the hornless ones' insults) and every once in a while he’d see a body the darkspawn had gotten to. Adaar had planned to let him out of the trap and walk away, though it struck him as strange that the man didn’t even have a knife on him in this forest, but the traps weren’t meant to let anyone down gently and Adaar couldn’t bring himself to leave an injured defenseless man, even a hornless, alone with the darkspawn and other sentries who might not be so keen on helping. Tama said that too—he was too soft. 

The area surrounding trap twelve was noisy with nocturnal animals and insects, though they stilled when the Ursaad came nearer; a good sign. Adaar tapped the hornless man’s uninjured leg twice to tell him they were stopping, though the man just grumbled and shifted away from his touch, not that there was anywhere for him to move. The saddle had the hornless man pressed close enough for Adaar to feel every shift of his hips, the heat of his body nestled along Adaar’s chest and between his legs. That close Adaar could smell nothing but the sourness of alcohol, and not for the first time Adaar wondered if he’d been set loose into the forest for one of the hornless ones' dragon gods. It was the only thing he could think of that would explain the intoxication, lack of weapons, and the hornless man’s reluctant acceptance of Adaar’s help. 

Adaar eased the Ursaad towards a large rock and slid out of the saddle and off the beast without disturbing the hornless man too much. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the hornless man alone out there when there was so much darkspawn activity, but the Ursaad were ferocious fighters and as long as the hornless man had the sense to hold on he would be fine. 

Adaar grabbed his bow from the top of his supply pack, and walked to the other side of the rock, where there was a small path free of shrubbery that would noisily announce his presence. He clicked his tongue twice against the roof of his mouth to grab the Ursaad’s attention, then put his palm out towards it with all five fingers spread. _Stay_ , it meant, and he repeated the gesture towards the hornless man, who could understand his words less than the Ursaad could. 

The Ursaad snorted and flicked her ear, and the hornless man just sort of blearily stared at him, still pressed forward in the saddle as if he hadn’t realized that there was space behind him now. Adaar felt laughter bubble in his chest, but outside of a sharp exhale he didn’t express it. The hornless man had been getting more and more slack the further they traveled, but Adaar hadn’t expected to see such a mussed up man giving him a sleepy look. It was almost...cute, but Adaar shut that thought down before it had the chance to expand; he wouldn’t sacrifice the work his brothers and sisters had done on his reeducation for this. 

Adaar abruptly turned to the path and began his trek to trap twelve. He was not as quiet as he should’ve been, and the forest had stilled long before he reached the trap. It was as he expected however; trap twelve was undisturbed.

Adaar took his time walking back to the Ursaad. He still had three other traps to visit, but he pushed that out of his mind and let each small step he took claim his focus, not the Ursaad and the injured hornless man on her back, not the brother he’d loved in ways he shouldn’t have. 

The hornless man was still awake when Adaar finally approached, if the way he slowly sat up when Adaar approached was any indication. They didn’t greet each other, though the hornless man did sigh slightly when Adaar slid back into the saddle. 

The way to the thirteenth trap was uneventful. The Ursaad was starting to slow, but Adaar needed sleep as much as she did and both wouldn’t stop until they were finished and at camp. The hornless man stopped tensing every time Adaar directed the Ursaad with his legs, which he had been trying to do minimally, so either his leg had stopped hurting so much or the hornless man stopped caring that it did. 

Trap thirteen itself had been triggered, but there was nothing in the net and no damage done to it, so it must have been triggered by an animal small enough to fit through the holes. Adaar did what he always did in that case—reset the trap and circle the area for darkspawn tracks just in case. It was unlikely that they’d be up that far north with the amount of scouts Adaar had found in traps one through six, but darkspawn were too big a threat to assume. 

The hornless man started to shift and squirm shortly after Adaar had visited fourteen—also sans darkspawn—and the heavy hand Adaar had placed on his thigh to get him to stop had only made things worse. The hornless man had jumped, and then push Adaar’s hand off with a dirty look sent over his shoulder. 

“Be still,” Adaar said, sounding as exasperated as he felt, not that the hornless man would understand him. It was difficult to control an Ursaad with so much movement in the saddle, and Adaar wasn’t too keen on having a body wriggling in his lap. 

The hornless man shot something back, and he held as much venom in his voice as Adaar did exasperation. Adaar could only sigh and shift back farther in the hopes that the movement against his hips would prevent at least one problem. The Ursaad was jerking on her reins with slightly more energy, but it felt more like a tired sort of mischief rather than an actual problem at the moment; she’d been well trained. 

At least it was only a short while to the fifteenth trap, and Adaar had never been so ready to check a trap. It was just as empty as the last few, and finally, _finally_ he could head to camp and sleep. 

Adaar rushed back quickly to the Ursaad after a quick look around the trap site; the faster he got onto the Ursaad, the faster he got to camp, and the Ursaad probably still had enough energy for Adaar to push her a little. When he rounded the large rock that marked the path, he paused. The hornless man was half out of the saddle and pressed very tightly against the Ursaad, arms wrapped around her as far as they would go and face against her fur. He was very still, a little too still. Adaar carefully reached back for an arrow and scanned the area, tensed and ready to roll if there was something out there. 

The Ursaad grunted a little and flicked her ear to shake off an insect, too at ease for there to be danger, and Adaar saw a gentle rise in the hornless one’s chest, and Adaar breathed out his urgency. Something was wrong with the hornless one, but it wasn’t darkspawn. Adaar replaced the arrow in his quiver and shifted his weight onto one leg. He wanted to get the hornless one’s attention, but Adaar felt awkward at the prospect of making a loud enough noise to catch it. 

He decided on a grunt and stepping as hard as he could on a nearby branch to make a solid snap. The hornless one’s chest rose and fell again before he slowly turned his face to Adaar—not a movement for someone who’d fallen asleep in the saddle and then startled awake when they started to fall, like Adaar had assumed had happened—and the look on his face was not exhaustion nor fear, but desperation. 

The hornless man said something, both his voice and face pinched, but Adaar was already on his way over, confusion swirling in his belly. Adaar hooked his bow onto his supplies and placed a careful hand on the hornless man’s hip to shift him back into the saddle. He did not look happy about being moved, but he didn’t force himself back, and this only made Adaar more confused. Why was the hornless man trying to get out of the saddle? 

The hornless man repeated what he said more urgently, a blush high on his cheeks. Adaar felt his brows furrow. 

He said it again, even redder, and gestured at his hips—no his crotch. What would _that_ have to do with Adaar? Some people got aroused when sharing a saddle, but Adaar was no Tamassran. 

The hornless man shifted like he had when Adaar was in the saddle, and mumbled something under his breath that had the inflection of a swear. That’s when it hit Adaar—the squirming. It was like a child who didn’t want to leave a game to relieve themself. He needed to piss, and badly by Adaar’s guess. 

Adaar climbed up the Ursaad, but instead of settling into the saddle he lifted the hornless man slightly and wedged his leg underneath the hornless man. The hornless man’s arms flew out in surprise, and grasped at Adaar’s arms, but Adaar just shifted them both so the hornless man was angled to the side. He didn’t think he could get the hornless man off the Ursaad without causing pain, and he was not carrying the man in this state. 

“Go,” he said, and when the hornless man did nothing but wriggle slightly, he pulled an arm free to gesture at the man and sweep his arm sideways like ‘ _go ahead_.’ 

The man froze for a second, then said something that sounded incredulous, but then he began to shift around his robes and that was Adaar’s cue to look up. He could at least give the illusion of privacy. 

Pretty forceful splashing started and Adaar flexed his thigh. He could see a few stars in the spaces between thick leaf covering above, but not enough to point out any one constellation. Darkspawn liked the darker areas more—something about them coming from underground. 

The hornless man relaxed in Adaar’s arms with a sigh, and the liquid sound tapered off to a trickle, then ended entirely. Adaar waited until the hornless man started pulling himself away from Adaar to bring his eyes back down. 

“Pee,” Adaar said suddenly, desperate to not have this situation arise again, and pointed at the puddle. When the hornless man didn’t say anything, Adaar pinched his leg, pointed at the puddle, and repeated, “Pee.” 

The hornless man seemed to get it, though he hunched further away from Adaar—and hell, Adaar was incredibly embarrassed about this situation too—because he nodded and repeated the word. Now he could ask. 

The ride to camp was much like the ride to trap twelve; neither of them could relax and there was just a bit too much adrenaline pumping through their veins to feel comfortable—though the Ursaad, who’d been slowly getting closer and closer to falling asleep while moving, didn’t seem to have that problem. Unlike the other ride, however, there was so much embarrassment and shame clouding their interaction that they were both as far away from each other as possible in the saddle, and Adaar held his arms very far away from their natural riding position just to keep from touching the hornless man. 

They couldn’t have reached the camp sooner. It was a small clearing with a fire pit, just enough for the sentry checking the traps to stay for the night before heading back to their appointed houses. After that evening, nothing looked more inviting. 

Adaar practically leapt off the Ursaad and tied her reins to a post; she might be exhausted and well trained, but Ursaad liked to test the limits of their owners and Adaar had no desire to chase her down in the morning—he’d made that mistake once and only once. 

And now came the difficult part. Adaar stepped to the side of the Ursaad and tapped the hornless man’s hip twice. The look of dread on the hornless man’s face had completely overturned any embarrassment he held from earlier, and Adaar was sure his face held the same. 

The hornless man leaned towards him, just enough for Adaar to reach up and take his weight in his hands, and then Adaar guided him over and down enough for the hornless man to rest his hand on Adaar’s shoulder. They moved slowly and carefully, but it wasn’t without pain if the hornless man’s clenched jaw and the grip on Adaar’s shoulder said anything. It was, at least, not as painful as the way up had been, and they got the hornless man down. 

Adaar leaned the hornless man against the post where the Ursaad was tied so he could stand or sit if he chose, but the wary glances at the Ursaad’s face told him that that was probably not a place the hornless man had any desire being. But Adaar wasn’t moving him, at least not until Adaar finished unpacking the camp. 

It wasn’t cool enough for a fire, so Adaar made do in the dark. He removed the saddle and supplies from the Ursaad and placed them out of reach from her, close to where Adaar planned on sleeping. He only pulled out his sleeping furs, too tired to do much else, and arranged them in a way that wouldn’t be too awkward to share. He only had the one set, and as much as he didn’t want to share, he equally did not want to sleep on the ground alone and he could never forgive himself if he made an injured person sleep on the ground instead. 

The hornless man was still standing by the post when Adaar finished. Adaar crouched down, prepared to lift and carry him again, but the hornless man slapped his shoulder a few times and shot him a pointed look that said he would rather sleep under the Ursaad than have him carry him again. Adaar could take a hint, so he offered the hornless man his shoulder, leaned over enough that the hornlessman could reach his shoulder, and then they hobbled over to the sleeping furs. 

It was harder to set him down on the furs than it had been to lean him against the post by the Ursaad, and they fumbled a bit trying to avoid any contact with the hornless man’s left leg. But it was done, and once Adaar pulled back the hornless man looked at him, then the only sleeping area, then back to Adaar with wide eyes. Adaar shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, then shrugged. It had to be that way. 

He walked to the edge of camp and relieved himself more out of a desire to avoid getting into the furs than actual necessity, but that only reminded him of earlier and he ended up walking back to the furs with a blush. Adaar couldn’t putter around camp and waste time when the camp only had his weapons and sleeping furs unpacked, so his only option was walking slowly back to the furs. Even as tired as they were, there was no way the hornless man would be asleep by the time he got there. 

He wasn’t. The hornless man had shifted as far to the side of the furs as he could and turned so his back was to the rest of them, but his body was tense and too unnaturally still for him to be sleeping. Something unpleasant swirled in Adaar’s gut, but at least one part of him was relieved that they would avoid touching as much as possible in sleep. Adaar settled onto the remaining furs and closed his eyes. As long a day as it had been, sleep came easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their first word together was _pee_ *giggles uncontrollably*


	3. Ahmpleestoomeetchyew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When something is said in the language the POV character doesn't speak, but they know the word it'll appear as [word] in the text. And it's what the POV character interprets from the situation/charades so it might not always be exact or right (especially if you the reader saw what the word *actually* was in the POV of the other character). Hope that makes sense! It shouldn't be too confusing to pick up on, but let me know if it is.

Dorian did not sleep well. The pain in his leg had dulled to an ignorable throb, but it seemed like every time he’d managed to drift asleep the bear beast would snort, or the furs would shift as the creature moved in his sleep, and Dorian would snap back awake, disoriented and unaware of where he was until he tried to sit up and his leg would twinge. Not to mention the man snored; if anyone could sleep through that—the sound of rocks being shaken in a wooden bowl—Dorian would be impressed. 

But before too long, the sun rose and light flooded the small manmade (creature made?) clearing, and Dorian opened his eyes to find himself in the middle of the furs, no creature in immediate sight. He could hear someone humming—something peppy and upbeat instead of a lullaby—and what sounded like fabric shifting, and Dorian sighed into the furs. He supposed it couldn’t have been a dream; no, he’d definitely run out of the city and into the woods, and yes, he was absolutely stuck with some...singing creature who considered giant bear-deer beasts a friend. 

Dorian sat up with a small groan and very little protest from his leg considering the circumstance. The man was crouched on the other side of the fire pit with his back to Dorian, but when Dorian stirred he looked over his shoulder and offered a small grin with none of his teeth showing—they had to be sharp nasty things. Dorian pulled his right knee to his chest and dragged his hand over his face with another groan. This was ridiculous. 

The man looked different in the light; less scary in some ways. Just like his chest and shoulders there was paint or a tattoo on his face for one—large black and red designs across his soft eyes and cheekbones that covered the knotted scar that spread from the bridge of his nose to his left cheek. He wasn’t as dark as Dorian and his skin had an almost purple-ish tint to it—strange but it seemed to fit him. The man could almost be considered handsome if he wasn’t nearly seven feet tall with horns, and Dorian felt something nearly schadenfreudic at the thought of his father learning that he felt some measure of attraction to men who weren’t human. 

Dorian’s stomach made itself known then, growling and groaning even above the man’s soft humming, and he slid his hand behind his knee to press against his belly. Dorian licked his dry lips and clenched his abdominal muscles when his hunger tried to roar again; he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before since he’d chosen to run out before dinner had even started, before he’d met the girl his parents had deigned to have enough of a powerful background to be considered good for the Pavus line. 

The man stopped humming and Dorian frowned at him—the man’s mouth was open in silent laughter. He didn’t have pointed teeth. Dorian supposed he could take some measure of comfort in the fact that the creature’s mouth wasn’t made to tear the flesh from his bones. 

Dorian expected it, but he couldn’t help the way his muscles tensed when the man stood up. He held a small leather satchel in one hand and Dorian couldn’t help but imagine the terrible things the creature could have stored in there; disgusting insects, the hand of his last victim, the head of a child. But when the man held the satchel out and Dorian grabbed it, it didn’t feel nearly heavy enough for the body parts, and insects didn’t have a particularly sweet odor, like the one wafting out of the satchel. 

Dorian eyed the satchel with some trepidation, and when he turned back towards the man Dorian found him smiling—still covering his teeth—and moving his arms in a way that suggested _go on_. 

Well, if he insisted. 

Dorian lowered his leg and set the satchel in his lap. The flap covering had shifted a little, not revealing the contents, but the smell had increased for a moment. Dorian reached with a careful hand—biting his lip just in case it actually was something terrible inside—and opened the satchel, and Dorian promptly let out a startled laugh when he saw what was in the bag. It was just dried berries. The man was offering him food. 

“Ah, thank you,” Dorian said automatically, though he didn’t take anything from the satchel just yet. The man said nothing, but he did nod slightly and then set down another, slightly bigger satchel that Dorian hadn’t noticed him carrying. 

This one was half-full with what looked like dried meat. It didn’t _look_ like human meat, but Dorian had never—and hopefully would never ever—seen human meat. 

“What is this?” he asked, pointing at the meat. 

The man furrowed his brows. 

“What kind of meat is this?” 

Dorian pointed at the meat again, and the man looked off to the side for a moment, in thought. He turned back to Dorian and said a word that Dorian wouldn’t understand, and then pinched his forearm, gathering skin and muscle between his fingers. He said the word again and repeated the gesture, and Dorian shoved the satchel away from him, his stomach roiling so badly Dorian thought he might vomit. 

_His own people’s meat_? What kind of creatures were these? No wonder he’d seen one stoned to death. 

The man looked shocked at Dorian’s reaction, as if people actually ate their own people in civilized society, and then suddenly and frantically waved his hands in the air, like he was trying to clear it. He said a different word then, his voice slightly breathier, and then tucked his hands into his armpits and moved his elbows up and down. 

Dorian’s laughter was more relieved than amusement at the way the man was acting. A bird. Meat, and the kind of bird—those were the words the man had said. 

His stomach growled again; Dorian’s sudden onset of fear apparently hadn’t killed his appetite, and he carefully picked up a small strip of the bird, and a few of the berries. The man had been in the process of righting his arms when Dorian put the meat to his mouth, and had his arms frozen in midair while he waited for Dorian to eat it. 

The meat tasted fine, like any other dried meat. It wasn’t as good as fresh meat, but Dorian only had himself to blame for running into the forest instead of sitting down for a fresh meal. He put one of the berries in next. It was tangier than its smell suggested, but not bad, and it didn’t make Dorian’s mouth tingle so he probably wasn’t allergic. That was certainly one way to go—red and swollen like a blimp until he choked on his own tongue, though less dignified than starving alone in the woods, or being shot with an arrow by this creature. It was a better fate than darkspawn though. 

He ate a few more berries and another strip of meat, glad to have something in his stomach again, and the man slowly crouched by Dorian’s feet. Dorian watched him warily, unsure of what he was doing. Why give him food? Fattening him up for dinner? If the food was drugged it wouldn’t make sense to go after Dorian now, when it hadn’t kicked in yet. But the man just pointed at Dorian’s legs and tilted his head with a questioning look in his eye. 

Dorian swallowed and dropped his empty hands to his thigh. What was he asking? If it hurt? But why would this creature care if his leg hurt? If he could walk? Dorian didn’t know about these horned creatures but _humans_ did not heal from broken bones overnight. If he could look at his leg? That was the more likely answer. Dorian flexed the toes on his right food, too afraid to try the ones on his left, and then nodded his assent sharply. He didn’t know what the man wanted from him, where he was taking him, but Dorian knew nothing about how to heal broken legs, and well, the man at least knew how to set and splint them. 

The man pulled at the sleeping furs and revealed Dorian’s left leg. He seemed to care for Dorian’s modesty, though Dorian was fully clothed, because he didn’t pull the furs off of any other part of him, not even his right leg which was less than six inches away. The man went to touch the splint, but aborted the move and simply stared at it with his bottom lip between his teeth. Dorian reached for another handful of berries and only just kept himself from sighing. The man clearly _only_ knew how to set and splint them.

The man looked up and grunted softly, but Dorian’s attention was already on him. He pointed at Dorian’s leg then made an exaggerated grimace. 

“Why yes, I was completely unaware of how bad a broken leg is,” Dorian said, and he resisted the urge to pull his leg up to his chest again. Perhaps his father would stop attempting to marry him off if he was disfigured from the injury—if he managed to return home. 

The man stared at him a moment, then shook his head. He pointed at Dorian’s leg again, then mimed hitting his elbow on something. The grimace returned, but this time Dorian understood. He was asking if it hurt, if there was pain. 

“[hurt/pain]?” the man asked, and Dorian repeated the word. 

“Hurt,” Dorian said after, because if he was meant to learn the creature’s language, then the creature would learn a proper language like Tevene. He wasn’t entirely sure if the word the man had said meant hurt or pain, but they could figure it out; the words had similar enough meanings in Tevene anyway. 

His leg didn’t hurt, at least not in the way it had before it was splinted. It ached, but it was so consistent an ache while he was sitting on the ground that he could ignore it. But they’d have to move at some point, and Dorian wasn’t actually sure that the man could do anything even if he was in pain.

Dorian put his finger and thumb a short distance apart and said, “A little.”

The man nodded then stood up. He walked over to his supplies nearby and dug out a canteen from somewhere in the top, and handed it over. Perhaps the man did have something for Dorian’s pain. But it was not a potion or a healing tea that passed his lips, just plain water. As parched as he was Dorian couldn’t complain much, but he made himself only take a few swallows because he didn’t know how deep the man’s supplies went.

When Dorian got his throat wet enough to cease feeling like sandpaper, he offered it back to the man, who took a quick drink himself and shuffled it back into his supplies. Dorian was finished with the food stuff too, or finished enough that he no longer wanted the satchels on or next to him, so he passed those over too. Curiously, the man only packed the one with the berries. 

The man ignored him after. Or rather he started cleaning up the little mess there was in the camp and Dorian’s attention now that he was awake and fed wasn’t a priority. But there was one little problem. The pressure on his bladder was making itself very known—when he’d awakened it was insignificant at best since he’d relieved himself of the alcohol he’d consumed last night, but that little bit of water in Dorian’s system had only reminded his body that oh yeah, that was a bodily function he had. 

Dorian looked at the man’s back as he moved around camp. No, he would not rely on him again for this, hadn’t meant to rely on him in the first place but he’d been unable to get off the bear-beast. A man’s business was his own. 

That was better said than done. Dorian managed to pull himself up with minimal pain (once he’d made sure the man was plenty busy with something or other, which was feeding the bear-beast a few strips from the meat satchel), but he had to shakely balance himself on one leg when he stood. There was no way to walk to the edge of the camp unless he wanted to hop on one foot over uneven ground and roots, and probably break his other leg, and Dorian would rather eat meat made from the creature than relieve himself _in_ camp. 

Dorian bit off his groan of frustration with a sharp click of teeth. Not only did he have to endure urinating off the side of a beast in front of a creature who appeared to be his age, but he was at the mercy of the man for bathroom breaks from then on too. 

“[Urine],” he said, knowing his distaste was showing clearly on his face. The word had tasted nearly as bad as it sounded. 

The man startled at Dorian’s voice, and nearly dropped the meat satchel. The look on his face when he turned could only be described as _eager_ , and Dorian looked over the man’s shoulder in disgust. Eager for what? Seeing Dorian humiliate himself again? Seeing private areas and private moments? The bear-beast behind the man huffed and stomped one foot.

The man set the meat satchel on top of the supplies and leaned down so Dorian could put his arm around the man’s shoulder, seemingly only slightly unconcerned that Dorian had been standing in the first place. He was just grateful the man had understood and remembered his desire not to be carried. It wasn’t easy moving, but he and the man hobbled to the treeline surrounding the small clearing, a good distance from the trees near the bear-beast, and the man leaned him against the nearest tree. The man let go after that and didn’t stick around to watch Dorian. Instead he’d started cleaning up the sleeping furs. Apparently he’d just been eager to help.

Dorian relieved himself quickly. He wasn’t anxious to leave exactly, but an injured man in a small clearing with a creature while who-knew-what surrounded them in the trees didn’t seem like a particularly enjoyable time either.

The man didn’t notice he’d finished—he’d started humming again and his focus was solely on packing up. Dorian shifted his position on the tree and waited a little longer, but the man just moved on to strapping his sleeping furs onto his supplies. This was absurd. Dorian was a stranger—injured, yes, but still capable of plenty—and the man hadn’t spared the littlest bit of attention for him. What if he’d attacked? What if they’d been attacked by darkspawn? The man could die because he decided to focus on _packing_. Something he could likely do in his sleep. 

And the fool just continued to pack—now putting the saddle and supplied back onto the bear-beast.

“Man,” Dorian said as loud as he dared. “Creature. I’ve finished.” 

The man gave him a curious look, like he was figuring something out, and gestured at Dorian with his palm out and his fingers spread. _Wait a moment_. Dorian huffed, but that didn’t stop the man from finishing what he was doing, and the saddle was secured onto the bear-beast before the man headed back over. 

Dorian readied himself into position, but the man didn’t move in just yet. He pointed to himself and asked, “Creature?” 

Dorian flushed, shame pooling hot in his belly. The man didn’t know his language, didn’t know what he was saying, but to actually confront Dorian with it, no matter how naïvely, made him feel terrible. Dorian couldn’t look at him, and his jaw felt stuck together, so he’d only nodded. 

There was a loud slap and Dorian looked over to see that the man had hit his own chest with his palm to both get Dorian’s attention and indicate himself. “ _Qunari_ ,” the man—Qunari—said. 

“Qunari,” Dorian repeated softer, and Qunari nodded. It was almost funny; Qunari had seen him stuck in a trap and nearly ruin his clothes like a baby, but they’d never exchanged names. 

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Dorian said with a flourish, recovering only because he’d had social niceties beat into him since he was young and at least that lesson of his father’s had stuck, “I’m Altus Dorian from house Pavus.” 

Qunari tilted his head, his brow pulling in confusion, then said, “Ahmpleestoomee—” 

Dorian cut him off with a wave and sighed. Of course the crea— _Qunari_ hadn’t understood. Dorian was reduced to little more than a caveman, nothing but simple syllables and charades.

“Dorian,” he said simply, and Qunari grinned. 

“Dorian,” Qunari said amicably, and then he finally leaned down into Dorian’s reach.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me up [on](http://ziusura.tumblr.com) [tumblr](http://stoneanddragons.tumblr.com). I gladly take prompts.


End file.
